“Mr Malone, my lady? We had a long and fruitful discussion, he and I, and concluded that we must talk frequently and often, for we have much to offer each other. As regards Captain Wakerley and Mr Parsons, he gave me a list of folk they had spoken to, and been refused by. There was not a man in Stoke, he said, as would take the risk going in arms against Mr Sam, for fear that he might not die easily and in the simple knowledge that I would be most upset. As, indeed, I was and am.”
“Your loyalty is known to all, Nick, and is deeply appreciated.”
“You move me almost to unmanly tears, my lady. I was declining to the level of a mere villain when Mr Sam made me his trusted henchman. I owe him much. Where was I? Ah, yes, the wicked pair who procured the death of your so noble husband, my lady. There is a certainty that both offered money to the man who would commit the fatal deed. Each is equally guilty. Each will pay the price of their actions. I shall bring home to them the enormity of their behaviour, and very soon, my lady.”
“Be careful, Nick! I would not wish to see you place your life in jeopardy for the likes of them. The children need you as their guardian for many a year yet, and your own pretty little daughter should not be deprived of her father.”
Nick was much struck by the wisdom of Josie’s advice. He did not know what he should do, for he could not leave the wicked pair unpunished yet must protect his own valuable life.
“Never before have I faced such a dilemma, my lady – for I have never valued my own life at more than a bagatelle. Now, I should not risk being taken off in my prime, I will, as they say, protect my own skin, yet they must not reap the rewards of their evil doings.”
“Perhaps, Nick, you could confront them and suggest they repent their wickedness in some practical fashion. You might well be able to express an alternative to them.”
That seemed good to Nick and he took himself off to his cottage to think, to consider what he should do.
It occurred to Nick that he must deal with the pair separately. Mr Parsons was no more than a well-off merchant and yeoman farmer while Captain Sir Charles Wakerley was a gentleman of the County, with connections to the Lord Lieutenant and so not unknown in London. What might work to exert pressure on Mr Parsons might be valueless when applied to Sir Charles, and vice versa.
Parsons first.
The Mayor of Stoke owned farmlands in the hills on the east and had rentals in the town itself. Several potteries were established on acreages leased from Mr Parsons and he owned some streets of poor housing. It would be difficult, almost impossible, to burn down his properties and impoverish him. Better to consider his personal circumstances. A wife and two grown sons and four younger girls, none as yet wed. Threats there might be practical but might also encourage Parsons to retaliate. A man who had purchased one killing could easily buy another.
All in all, it appeared wiser to Nick to cut Parsons’s throat and be done with him.
For Sir Charles, well, once Parsons was under the ground then it would be possible to send a note announcing that he was next, unless he could make recompense to the poor widow and her orphaned children. Nothing specific, let him make a gesture which might be acceptable.
Not a bad idea, he thought. Killing gentlefolk was a risky business, they having access to the government who might be inclined to investigate the crime, as they would consider it. There would be no great furore over the death of Parsons, an insignificant little man, but the murder of Sir Charles would excite all manner of enquiry.
Parsons then, and on an early day. He was a magistrate of Stoke as well as Mayor and the Bench sat every Tuesday. He would ride home by way of Leek in the afternoon and it would be no great matter to intercept him on the road.
Was he to make something of a show of the business, then Sir Charles might be inclined to take a warning more seriously. That would require a little of ingenuity, perhaps, but who was more ingenious in such matters than Nick?
The decision taken, Nick went in search of his lady and the baby, his delight and comfort in a hard world. He sat in the sunshine, rocking his little girl and at peace with the world, waving to the few passers-by on the road and smiling beatifically. His life was truly blessed, he believed. He was surprised when Pointer arrived with a little package from Josie, handing the baby back to her mother before going to greet him.
“Missus says you will be interested in this, Nick. Said I needn’t wait for no answer.”
“Thank you, Pointer. I shall read the missive immediately. You have not opened it, I presume?”
“Ain’t got me letters. Don’t see a man needs be readin’, got better things to do with me time. Anyway, got to look after the gig and clean that up, and give a hand round the stables and do anythin’ the missus tells me to. Handsome piece, that one, Nick - might be I’ll get round to suggestin’ a couple of things she might want to do!”
Pointer was amazed to discover himself backed up against the wall of the cottage, the bricks grinding into the back of his head as he tried to get away from the razor at his throat. Nick was a much smaller man than him, but he had no desire to try to push him away; he could feel that his skin was about to be sliced apart, dared not move at all.
“My lady is far above your sort, Pointer. Should you so much as say a word to her, or even look lasciviously, then I shall eviscerate you before I end your miserable existence. You have heard of hanging, drawing and quartering, Pointer?”
Nick waited a few seconds before demanding an answer.
“Yes!”
“Be sure, Pointer, the traitor suffering that death will be better served than you - and will die more quickly. Go now. Take this to jog your memory if ever you should forget my words.”
Nick flicked the razor, very precisely left and right, leaving a trace of blood encircling Pointer’s neck.
“The most delicate of scars, Pointer. You will see it whenever you shave your unpleasant face. Change your trousers before you speak to my lady, Pointer. I do not wish her upset by your insanitary habits.”
Pointer looked down, not realising that he had wet himself in his terror.
“Do not sit on the bench-seat, Pointer. You will not wish to leave a smell.”
The driver left, leading the horse and silently weeping, wholly broken.
“A foolish man, dear girl. No doubt he will know better now.”
“Should ‘ave known better than anger thee, me dear. Don’t ‘e know who thou art?”
“It would seem he did not. He does now.”
Nick opened the packet, found a short letter and an enclosure.
‘Nick, I came across this in a wallet among my husband’s effects and now realise it might be of value in your current circumstances.’
The letter was signed with the initial ‘J’.
The enclosure contained the letter from Parsons committing himself to the Jacobite cause and offering money in return for favours after the success of the rising in ’45.
“How very foolish, my dear!”
Nick’s lady could not see the letter and smiled enquiringly.
“No matter. Better you should not know, I suspect. You are to be taken by surprise when the neighbourhood discusses the affair, as it certainly will.”
“Don’t thee trust me, Nick?”
“Wholly, my dear, but it will be easier if you have no need to simulate amaze.”
She had an affection for Nick, but no wish at all to anger him, agreed that he must be right.
Tuesday afternoon saw Nick waiting on the road outside Leek where it passed around a bend in the dale. He placed himself behind a drystone wall on the left some five feet higher than the lane itself. There were a few trees along the wall, useful for his purposes. He had a length of heavy line in his hand, made up in a loop. It was a dry day and he expected Parsons to be riding home rather than using his carriage. He had hopes of dealing with the business then and there but was quite willing to stay hidden if there should be another traveller, or if any other inconvenience arose – he was in no
overwhelming hurry.
He heard hoofbeats a little distant – a single nag.
‘Very tidy, I suspect, my dear sir.’
Chapter Three
Killing’s Reward
Section One - AD 1752
His Worship the Mayor came around the bend, walking his horse and in no great hurry on the uphill stretch. The journey from Stoke to his house was almost ten miles and he was content to spend the better part of two hours on the rough lanes that passed for roads in the uplands.
He allowed his horse to pick its way along the pot-holed surface, lost in his own thoughts. The court had heard a difficult case that morning and he was not at all sure they had come to the correct findings – he did not trust some of the testimony against a local man accused of theft. The defendant claimed that stolen goods had been placed in the shed in his garden, without his knowledge. The accuser had insisted he had seen him in commission of the theft of garden tools to the value of eight shillings, sufficient value for a hanging. Both men were in their middle years and single and had been courting a recent widow possessed of her own small property, motive sufficient for perjury. Local opinion – which was not evidence but was indicative – suggested that the widow lady favoured the accuser, which made it less likely that he was trying to get rid of his rival. The Bench had remanded the defendant to trial at Quarter Sessions, which was very likely to convict him on the existing evidence. Mr Porter had no wish to hang an innocent man and even less desire to acquit one who was guilty – it was difficult, but he regretfully concluded that the law must take its course. Theft must be deterred, there was too much of it about, he feared.
Porter jerked out of his reverie as a noose fell onto his shoulders and was snatched tight around his throat. His hat fell to one side as he was dragged from his horse, landing hard and half-stunned as well as choked. He rolled over in the mud of the lane, unable to rise, looked up to see Nick shaking his head reproachfully.
“You killed my master, Mr Porter. Or procured the actual deed, which is the same. There is a penalty for murder, sir. You shall pay it.”
The noose tightened further and Porter fought to breathe, flapping at the rope, could do nothing as he was dragged to a tree. He tried to struggle as a second loop was placed around one ankle and he was heaved upside down into the air, dangling from a branch, his head no more than a foot above the ground. It was all too quick and he was dazed, unused to violence; he had never in his life had to defend himself, could not learn how in the few seconds available. The first loop was removed and he tried to heave air into his lungs, to scream for help, could manage no more than a gurgle.
Nick stopped for a moment, even more reproachful as he panted from his exertions.
“You are overweight, Mr Porter! You have been eating greedily, sir! I have, however, a cure for your gluttony, and for your other sins.”
Porter tried again to fill his lungs, to shout, gave a sighing moan as his throat was sliced open and he was bled like a pig in a slaughterhouse.
Nick stood fastidiously to one side, boots carefully clear of the splashing, and pinned the treasonable letter to his coat, with next to it a small placard proclaiming ‘Death to all Traitors’.
It seemed to Nick that should muddy the waters satisfactorily. Any investigation was likely to be cursory, for fear of uncovering agents of the government as the responsible parties.
Several coins fell from Porter’s pockets, splashing into the blood and mud in the lane. Nick left them, though he did not doubt that whoever first discovered the body would scoop them up.
Nick took a final glance about him, to be sure that he had dropped nothing of his own in the brief struggle, and then scurried over the shoulder of the hill and the mile back to his own cottage. There, he examined his clothing, found a speck of blood on his shirt and put it out for the wash and changed into afternoon wear, as was proper for a man in his own home, and sat down with a pot of tea in the company of his lady.
“A very good hour’s work, my dear. Is the little one asleep?”
She was, to the satisfaction of both; everything was well in their domestic world.
“Shocking news, Nick! One is told that Mr Porter, the Mayor and Chairman of the Bench, has been found dead, with reason to suppose him to have been a wicked traitor to our Sovereign Lord, the King!”
Nick had heard the rumours, he said.
“Horrifying, my lady! That such a one should lie hidden among us is almost beyond belief. I am told there was a letter pinned to his breast, written in his own hand at the time of the Young Pretender’s rebellion. Such evil, ma’am, is almost inconceivable.”
Both maintained an entirely serious face, not the faintest twitch of a smile permitted.
“It is indeed, Nick. I am told the Crowner is to call an inquest on the corpse. The banker, Mr Martin, visited me only this morning and said that if the Crowner finds him to be dead in previously undetected treason, then his estate must escheat to the Crown. His family will lose all, wife and children cast out into the street.”
Nick had not known that to be the case but was in no way inclined towards sympathy.
“The sins of the father, my lady…”
“Exactly so, Nick – they shall be visited on the children, so the Good Book says. On an apposite matter, and not unimportant, we rent the new distillery from Mr Porter’s estate, do we not?”
“So we do, my lady. It might be possible to address the Lord Lieutenant, who will be responsible for the escheated properties, no doubt, to request that we be permitted to purchase the freehold.”
Unspoken was that a small bribe in the gentleman’s hands would result in a very generous price for the building and its lands.
“Mr Martin will probably be able to act for us, Nick, for, as a mere female, I have no direct means of contacting the authorities.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Nick decided to wait a few days before speaking to Sir Charles Wakerley. Let the inquest be dealt with first so that Sir Charles could see just how totally Mr Porter had been destroyed.
The Crowner was a low Protestant and had never so much as considered support for the Jacobite cause, tainted as it was with Catholicism. He truly, honestly believed the country was far better off for the absence of the Stuarts and could only be pleased that their sycophants should be found dead.
“The deceased was found dangling, inverted, from the branch of a tree – an act of some perversity. His throat was cut, veins and arteries alike severed and his life blood in a pool in the lane below him.”
His jury, eight local men who qualified as owners of freehold property and included Nick, showed distress at so violent a taking off. They were convened in a barn which was the nearest building to the site of death, as was traditional, sat on a hard bench. It was a wet, cold day; there was no heating in the barn and they had no desire to take too long from their own work. They waited impatiently for the Crowner’s next words.
“There were two documents pinned to the chest of the corpse. The one, a placard bearing the legend ‘Death to all Traitors’, which you see before you.”
The Crowner’s bailiff displayed the placard and pointed to the words for the benefit of the three illiterates on the jury.
“As well, and more significant, you may think…” The Crowner’s portentous voice made it clear that he fully expected them to give great weight to his next words.
“As I say, also found pinned to the dead chest, this letter, which you may read.”
Nick took the letter from the bailiff and very kindly volunteered to proclaim it aloud for the benefit, he said, of those who might otherwise have difficulty with reading the document in the poor light of the barn, and to inform those present to observe justice being done of the nature of the evidence.
All present, an audience of a good fifty of local men and interested parties from Stoke and elsewhere, thought that was tactful and kindly – there was no need to embarrass those who had never been taught to read. They approved of
Nick’s benevolence.
The letter was addressed to ‘His Majesty’, named Mr Porter and pledged his allegiance to the Stuarts, and announced it was accompanied by one hundred guineas in gold.
There was a deep and universal indrawing of breath. One hundred guineas was more than a year’s income to most of those present.
The letter was returned to the Crowner who then asked if any man present recognised the handwriting.
A Mr Lascelles, a local squire and stood among the onlookers, announced that he was a parish magistrate, as the Crowner knew, and had regularly sat under Mr Porter as Chairman.
“I have seen his hand, and his signature especially upon warrants of committal. His signature has a particular flourish, Your Honour.”
A bailiff carried the letter to Mr Lascelles who scrutinised it carefully.
“Upon my troth, Your Honour, I believe, am certain beyond reasonable doubt, that this is the signature and hand of Mr Porter.”
The Crowner gave his thanks and stared meaningfully at the jury.
“There are no witnesses to the awful event, members of the jury. We must assume two or more assailants, for the deceased was not a small man, but we have no indications of who they might have been. We do not know whether the killers were local men, or from foreign parts, London, for example.”
Six of the jury showed puzzled; the other two reminded them that the true King dwelt in London, as did his ministers and their agents.
The Crowner invited the jury to discuss their verdict in the absence of further testimony.
Nick was invited to act as their foreman, as all knew of him, but modestly declined on the grounds that he had recently come to the area and it should be a truly local man to take such a position. A yeoman farmer, one of the illiterates, was given the honour.
Under the foreman’s guidance and at Nick’s urging, they quickly agreed the identity of the corpse, and that he had been foully done to death. More than that, there was little to say, other than one important point. The foreman rose, bashful and red in the face at such prominence.
Killing's Reward Page 4
